


the call of the light

by plantyourtreeswithme



Category: Star Wars Original Trilogy
Genre: Fluff and Angst, Force-Sensitive Han Solo, M/M, POV Han Solo, Post-Star Wars: Return of the Jedi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-15
Updated: 2020-03-15
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:13:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23159836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/plantyourtreeswithme/pseuds/plantyourtreeswithme
Summary: Luke goes missing, and Han is sent chasing after him.(Or, Luke runs and runs and runs; Han catches him every time.)
Relationships: Luke Skywalker/Han Solo
Comments: 14
Kudos: 183





	the call of the light

**Author's Note:**

> This started out as something short, then got away from me completely. Hope you enjoy!

"Another desert, Luke?"

He says it aloud as he lopes down the Falcon's ramp, as if the Jedi can hear him. As if the person he's looking for is even here at all; as if this isn't just another dead end.

A gust of unbearably dry air almost knocks him over, but he manages to steady himself before falling. He takes a cautious step onto the vast red sands and squints at his surroundings. "It's _kriffing_ hot," he scowls.

To further emphasize this point, Chewie peers out of the Falcon and moans piteously at Han.

"Yes, _fine_ , you can stay inside," he calls over his shoulder, rolling his eyes. It's not Chewie's fault he's covered in fur, sure - but an extra set of eyes to help him look would be helpful.

God, and his eyes are tired, too. Three days straight of searching; eleven planets combed over from top to bottom, and no sign of Luke on any of them. Han is starting to resent this godforsaken, blasted mission - is starting to resent Leia, of all people - _Leia_ , who, by all accounts, he's supposed to be in love with. At least, that's what Lando tells him.

"It's been too long," she'd said to him as he stalked down the half-constructed corridor towards her - on Chandrila, their new base - through the buildings that were still being built. Her tone of voice, the look on her face, did not align with her words, and after a moment's rushed, panicked thinking, he realized she was _not_ , in fact, delighted to see him, upset at the amount of time he'd been away.

"You mean Luke?" he asked, because who else would it be, and she rolled her eyes at him in lieu of response - because who else would it be? "Where's he gone off to this time?"

The sun bore down on them as Leia paced down the roofless hallway, Han in tow. He had to be careful not to step on the train of her ridiculous dress, one her advisors had insisted she wear as the perfect, pristine face of the New Republic.

"Somewhere in search of any last traces of Sith, where else?" she said. "He's relentless."

"Yeah, well, that's Luke for you -"

"I'm being serious, Han. He hasn't been in contact for two revolutions. I'm worried."

"That's unlike him," Han had said, sobered, brow furrowed; and when she offered no response: "What do you want me to do about it?"

Another incessantly dramatic eye roll, and she said, "What you always do, flyboy" - and somehow he'd ended up here, sweating like a Hutt on the wrong end of a business deal.

He takes his jacket off and ties it about his waist; yanks his shirt over his head, crams it into one of his back pockets; adjusts his macrobinoculars and scopes out the horizon. Nothing but dunes, but nicer on the eyes than Tatooine. Redder, more vibrant than Luke's homeworld.

He wonders if Luke likes it here.

He dismisses the thought from his mind; looks for any sign of the familiar, battered X-wing Luke refuses to part with, but it's nowhere to be seen. Han curses softly to himself, starts walking in some random kriffing direcion. Wonders why Luke's still so karking stubborn.

It's been months since the Rebellion triumphed; months since the Empire has begun to fizzle out, and _every time_ Luke comes to Han and Leia with a new mission, the three of them argue for hours. Leia always worries Luke is roaming too far out into the Dark; Han can see the guilt in her eyes, the fear she holds, close to her chest, that her brother will fall to the Sith, as he almost had before. Those two will have shouting matches for days about where Luke's allegiance truly lies if Han isn't there to stop them.

Han himself only cares for trying to convince Luke to take a better ship on his escapades, lest he be accidentally stranded in the Outer Reaches. He's smart enough to know there's no stopping Luke when he has his mind set on something. It's best to stand far back, well out of his reach, and avoid any potential loss of limbs. But on the matter of ships, he'll at least _try_ convincing Luke to see reason.

Something in his gut tugs at him, and he shivers at the feeling that gnaws at his stomach from time to time on these particular expeditions, telling him where to go, which direction to head in if he wishes to find Luke. It called to him in the Falcon, as he flew laps around the Outer Rim and pondered where to turn next; and it calls to him now, pulling him up the slope of a huge ridge of sand.

He tells himself it isn't the Force, it can't be. Maybe it's Luke, using the Force to make his presence known - but it _cannot_ be the Force speaking to him of its own accord. He's too corrupt, too... blasphemous, unholy.

He crests the top of the sandbank and looks down, a little shocked to find what must be Luke's encampment - _and so close to where we landed, too,_ he ponders.

Perhaps the Force has more of a hand in this than he originally thought.

Han trips gracelessly down the dune, without caring, without qualms. He investigates the little tent Luke has set up: a long, ragged piece of cloth that looks like it was torn from the lining of his X-wing's interior, draped across three forlorn-looking metal pieces, no doubt wrenched from the undercarriage of the fighter.

"So that answers _that_ question," he mumbles out loud, as if Chewie is here to listen and growl accordingly. But where has Luke gotten off to?

He pokes around the campsite, finds Luke's tin of freeze-dried food tucked neatly within the makeshift tent. Nothing else remains, leaving Han to suspect that Luke is on the move - but no, he wouldn't leave the only materials he has to use as shelter here if he had no plans to return.

For the rest of the day, he searches the area in a five-mile radius, finding no further trace of Luke. The wind seems to have wiped away any trace of the Force-user's footprints in the sand, else Han would've tracked him down by now - or maybe Luke erased them himself.

Night falls, and he comms Chewie briefly before settling himself underneath Luke's ad hoc refuge. He balls his shirt up to use as a pillow and uses his jacket, now dirty and crusted with sand, as a blanket.

He tells himself he will stay awake, he will wait for Luke - then almost immediately drifts uneasily off to sleep.

* * *

Han wakes to the smell of something burning.

If possible, it is hotter than it was the day before, and he swears blearily, cursing himself as he stands up, shakes the sand off of him, wondering if it's worth going all the way back to the Falcon just to get more water when he might as well just die of heatstroke -

He pushes the tent flap out of his face crabbily, blinks in the cruel sun, lets Luke's name fall softly, unbidden, from his lips.

Because the Jedi himself is there, hunched over a fire, with his shirtless back to him - and it is undeniably Luke's build (Han would know, wouldn't he, after so many hours spent cautiously peeking, staring, eating his fill of the younger man's lithe physique every time he gets the chance) - most definitely that shock of blonde hair, shining, reflecting the harsh glare of desert warmth -

But the _scars_ that mar Luke's back: like someone ripped him to shreds, then clumsily stitched him up again. Like Luke cracked, burst open at the seams; a fragile sculpture thrown to the floor, then slowly, piece by piece, glued back together again - but imperfectly, crudely, as if done by a child. Silver-red, haphazard scribbles, spread all across the plain of Luke's golden, farm-tan skin, arching out from his spine like...

Like bolts of lightning.

He has no idea what happened to Luke on the second Death Star, but he does know that he returned a changed man.

"Sleep well?" Luke asks suddenly, without turning around, interrupting Han's thoughts.

How Han's heart aches at the sound of his voice. What a fool he was, trying to trick himself into believing that time away from the Rebellion would be better for both of them; that he wouldn't miss Luke at all if he left for days and days and days; that he would stop pining after his stupid, gorgeous farmboy eventually, if enough weeks passed.

Then Luke moves to face him, and Han wants to rush forward, touch him, caress his cheek - but he stays his place.

The question lies still unanswered between them, and so he clears his dry, parched throat, says in a scratchy voice, "No, I was too worried about a certain someone's whereabouts."

A frown crosses Luke's face - the opposite of what Han intended, and he opens his mouth to backpedal, to recover, but Luke beats him to it: "Maybe if you would stop chasing after me and meddling in things that don't concern you, you wouldn't be so -"

"Yeah, well, _Leia_ asked me to," he snaps, anger rearing in his gut at the mention of her, and at Luke's own irritation. He takes a breath, shuts his eyes for a second, then says before he can help himself, "Besides, I owe you one, remember?"

He sees the annoyance on Luke's face fade, give way to flushed remembrance as they both recall the way they had looked at each other on Tatooine before Luke left for greater things - the way Han had torn the goggles from his face to see Luke with his own, reborn eyes for what might've been the last time, as the sandstorm raged around them.

The way their hands had lingered at each other's touch; the way Luke eventually pulled away, and Han had tried to keep him there, tug him back into his arms, but the carbonite had sapped him of his strength, and off to Dagobah he went...

"Yes, I remember," Luke says softly, his gaze dropping to Han's lips. Han wonders how long this has been going on between them, if Luke wants to kiss him now as badly as he does.

He remembers his certainty, feeling as if he _knew_ Luke loved him back. Now he isn't sure what Luke thinks of him. All he can sense from him is a deep weariness, as if he has put up a wall between them to keep Han from perceiving his emotions.

"Come home, Luke," he says, equally as gentle. "Whatever you're looking for, you won't find it here.”

”How do you know I haven’t already?” Luke says, that new vexation flashing in his eyes again.

”This place is totally uninhabitable,” Han says with a snort. “What Empire slimeball would want to come here? It’s too karking hot to get anything done.”

Luke points angrily at the fire behind him, and Han looks, sees the remains of what must've been some kind of Sith relic - smells the evil stench of a burning Holocron, maybe -

"So is that it?" he asks. "Is that the last of them?"

Luke’s lower lip trembles. Han can’t tell if he’s trying to keep from crying or laughing. Maybe it’s both.

”What are you trying to prove,” he presses, “by running off all the time? Why do you keep leaving?”

”I - there’s nothing for me to do back -“

”Leia needs you. _I_ need you, kid - look -“ He pinches his brow with frustration. His head is starting to pound. “You’re not doing anyone any favors, _least_ of all yourself, by chasing after rumors. We need you back home.”

”What do you need me _for_ , Han? The Sith are all but wiped out -“

”Yeah, the Sith and the Empire are gone, so you can stop fucking chasing after ghosts now, Luke!” he yells, before he even realizes that he is shouting.

Luke takes a step back, shock plain on his face. “Han...”

”I - there’s no point to this,” he says, softer now. His voice cracks; he feels like a kriffing teenager. “They’re all gone. You wiped them out; the Empire’s on its last legs. _What more do you have to prove?_ ”

Luke says nothing.

The silence stretches on like an eternity, baking upon the red sands, and Han, exasperated, is about to speak when Luke finally says:

”I’m afraid to fall to the Dark.”

For a moment, Han is speechless; then he splutters, jokes feebly, “What, you think Leia’s right? You should know by now she’s never right about anything -“

”That’s not true,” Luke says, and now Han watches him shift, sees the tears fall down his cheeks.

He feels himself move forward without consciously telling his legs to do so; reaches to wipe Luke’s grimy face with his thumbs despite himself. “Hey,” he says sweetly, and it’s no wonder Luke has begun to break, after driving himself forward for so hard and so long.

”I came so close, Han,” he whispers, gazing up at his counterpart. Han struggles and fails not to note how adorably short Luke is, cannot help but calculate the exact distance he would have to raise himself up on his tiptoes in order to properly kiss him.

”But you didn’t,” he says, reassures. “You stayed with the Light. You've destroyed everything that remained of the Sith. There’s nothing left to tempt you; how can you possibly think you would fall now?”

”He - the Emperor - he left his mark on me,” Luke stutters, fists balled up against Han’s chest. “His lightning -“

”He’s gone, Luke, he can’t do anything to you.”

”I don’t - I couldn’t bear it if I ever - if I hurt you or Leia or -“

Han almost laughs, because Luke is so unfathomably _good_ , so impossibly pure and full of love, how can he not see it? How can he be so blind, so stubborn and bullheaded, so as not to see his own perfection, the brilliance that radiates off of him in waves, great swells of the Force - even as unlike himself he's seemed these past few weeks - so strong that even Han himself, Han “Wouldn’t-Know-The-Force-If-It-Hit-Him-With-A-Ten-Foot-Pole” Solo, can feel it?

"Why are you - what's so funny?" Luke flares up again, and Han realizes he actually has chuckled out loud.

"I just... you're so... full of Light, Luke, how can you not see it?" Luke shudders at that, tears rolling freely down his cheeks now, and he draws him even closer into his arms, cradling the back of his golden head with his hand - and his younger counterpart melts, burying his head in Han's shoulder.

" _I'm_ more likely to fall to the Dark side than you," he says, "and I'm not even a kriffing Force-user." How he loves making Luke laugh, how warmth sparks in his chest as Luke rubs at his eyes, lets a smile spread across his face. Han can feel it against his collarbone, thinks he might die at the sensation.

"I'm sorry," he says faintly, muffled against Han's undershirt.

"You have nothing to be sorry for."

"No, I -" Luke pulls away somewhat, looks up at him. Han can see in his eyes how tired he is. "I'm sorry for running. I'm sorry you had to come after me again."

Han presses a kiss to his forehead, says, "Don't apologize. I'll catch you every time, I promise."

* * *

They dig the wrecked X-wing out of the sand - or, well, _Luke_ uses the Force to retrieve the remains from where they were submerged, while Han sort of stands there and pretends not to be starstruck at how much Luke has grown into the Force, how quickly it responds to his call, how strong he still is, even despite his exhaustion. 

"I'll rebuild her myself, I promise," he tells him, and Luke nods silently, helps him load the slipshod pieces into the Falcon's cargo hold.

Later, he finds himself staring at Luke in the cockpit, watching him flip the toggle switches and turn blinking dials as natural as anything, like he knows this ship better than the back of his hand.

He turns back to his own console before Luke can see him, smiles to himself as the Jedi sits down in the co-pilot's chair.

"Chewie's gonna be mad at you," he says a few moments later, turning to grin brightly at him.

Luke smiles softly, says nothing.

"What's wrong?"

A moment's pause; then Luke gets up out of the chair and leans forward, his face so impossibly close to Han's. Han drinks him in, eyes betraying him, darting down to Luke's lips.

Then Luke closes the gap between them, laying a palm against Han's chest as he finally, _finally_ kisses him, and Han cups his cheek, wonders how he could've been such a fool, how he ever could've thought time apart from each other was a good idea.

"What took you so long?" he breathes, eyes half-lidded, when Luke pulls away.

Luke looks at him with big, blue eyes, his flaxen hair a halo about his face. "I could ask you the same thing," he grins; teasing, falling back to their natural rapport. Han remembers sitting just like this, months ago, as they glided through space towards Yavin 4 and he had said, "You think a princess and a guy like me - ?" just to get a rise out of Luke, who had cut him off, blushing, saying, "No," like the very thought distressed him to no end.

God, they'd been so young - they _still_ were so young...

He kisses Luke again, chaste and sweet, and says, "I was waiting for the Force to lead me to you."

Luke stills, is quiet for almost too long. Han thinks he's gone too far and lost him again, chased him away - but then, tentatively: "And did it?"

"Yes," he whispers without hesitation, touching Luke's chin with his thumb and forefinger as Luke surges forward, his hands cradling either side of Han's face. He pulls his Sun even closer, until he is sitting on Han's lap, and he can't stop _smiling_ as their lips meet again, as Luke finally opens up to Han, allows himself this one small pleasure after so much pain and suffering and war.

They have their whole lives before them, and Han feels he might burst into flame, as incandescent, as ardent as he is in the glow of Luke's light.

**Author's Note:**

> The goodbye on Tatooine referenced above is from [a deleted scene in "The Return of the Jedi."](https://youtu.be/3kCpa9sotvE?t=166)
> 
> Please consider leaving me a comment or kudos if you enjoyed this piece! Thank you for reading :)


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